


Fair & Foul

by Debate



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Conspiracy, F/M, Gen, Knights - Freeform, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Witchcraft, probably too colloquial for the setting, scribes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-02-23 03:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13181880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: Months of digging into a military and government conspiracy come to a head on the night Karen is wrongly accused and arrested for witchcraft, forcing her to untangle the truth—by whatever means necessary."If we’re gonna figure this out, there ain’t no backing down, we’re in this together. Till it’s over.”It’s half rally speech, half warning, and she can’t tell which half is making her heart hammer. She breathes deeply to steady herself, then thinks over her words carefully before speaking.“I don’t do things in half measures,” she tells him. “I’ll see this through.”





	1. Incarceration & Liberation

When the guards come, they come at night. 

There’s banging on her door at an ungodly hour. She awakes and has barely slipped from her bed when they lose patience and throw the door open, the three of them storming into her home with hands at their scabbards and mouths set in straight lines. 

“Miss Page you’re under arrest for witchcraft,” one of them announces, the eldest of the three, his full beard greying around the mouth. She opens her mouth to protest, to defend her reputation, but the other two guards approach menacingly, each taking hold of her upper arms. She clenches her fists, but knows better than to fight back, if she wants to live she knows she must cooperate. And have God on her side. 

It’s with that thought that she knows she’s doomed. 

 

They march her out her front door and must be as familiar with the area as she, because they do not need torches to see on an almost moonless night. They quickly come into town but they don't stop in the main square, where the stocks are, as she expects. Instead they head to the west, towards the town’s only inn, and for the first time that night she feels true panic. Karen has never been one for surprises and is most at ease when she knows what to expect. In the eight witchcraft arrest that have been made in the last month, none of the accused have been brought to the town’s inn. 

“Where are you taking me?” She asks, keeping her voice as calm and non confrontational as possible. If she were being arrested for anything else she might try to overplay her fragility to gain their sympathy and her release. But as it stands they believe she’s a witch, and everything she says and does is under immediate suspicion. 

Know your surroundings, Ben would say, play to your strengths. 

Her only answer is a staunt order to shut up and—as if they feel further measures must be taken to keep her from disobeying—an old rag is shoved in her mouth and used as a gag. They bind her wrists behind her back too, but are at least kind enough to do it over the sleeves of her nightgown so that the rough rope doesn't dig into her skin. They leave her feet free. 

“Get a move on,” says the oldest guard and she can't tell if he's directing her or his companions. They circle around the back of the inn, where there's a stable. A young boy is rushing to get the guards’ three horses ready, and the eldest guard looks on with irritation, his expression growing more stormy with each passing second. Finally the horses are ready, and the guard flicks a coin in the boy’s direction before gracefully mounting his horse. One of the other guards does the same and the last one, the youngest, smallest, and only one who has yet to speak to her, nudges her towards the third horse. 

It's quite difficult to mount a horse when your hands are bound, but luckily her legs are long and with a little help from the guard she's able to get herself seated in the saddle. Unfortunately, doing so hikes up her nightgown, and her legs—up to the knee—are exposed to the chill air. She flushes in embarrassment, but if the guard notices a moment later when he mounts behind her he doesn't show it. 

He urges the horse into a slight canter to catch up with his two companions who are already several yards ahead and are turning towards the main road. 

Karen has only ever ridden a horse twice before and never at a pace even resembling a gallop. They've barely started down the road before her legs and ass begin to ache, not at all aided by her inability to move around due to the guard’s close proximity. He has one arm securely around her middle and the other clutching the reins. Her own hands are pressing into his stomach, the buttons and scratchy wool of his uniform digging into her knuckles. She misses her bed and dreamless sleep.

It is still very dark, but the road at least offers clear direction, and, for someone who knows the area as well as Karen, it suggests one probable destination: Fort Shillelagh. 

The thought sends shivers up her spine; she knows the place’s history. It was once a defense fortification during the border wars, before the country expanded. Now it was a good fifty leagues northwest of the border, but still served a military function, overseeing weapons production in the nearby quarries and forest, as well as training a fair amount of the kingdom’s knights and guards. It was also where all the executions in the county took place. 

It’s three leagues to the fort, and they make quick time, arriving about two hours before sunrise. Karen can’t make out any of the fort’s distinguishing features in the blackness of the night, it looks like a piece of black fabric overlaying the landscape, with a line of torches forming a sort of halo on the uppermost wall. 

They approach the gate on the west entrance. She knows the fort is in the shape of a pentagon, with the main gate facing north, towards the center of the kingdom, but they don’t go anywhere close to it. During the day she figures the west gate would be well trodden, but at this hour it is quiet, with the doors barred and shut. 

The old guard calls out some sort of signal, his voice loud and ugly in the silent night. It occurs to Karen that it is quite odd that there is no noise drifting from the military establishment. Her bound hands clench the cuffs of her nightgown as the door slowly opens. 

They ride through and Karen can’t help but look up at the sturdy structure of the wall. It’s made of stone as thick of the length of her arm, unusual for the time in which it was built. It’s not surprising that it still stands today. 

They dismount in a designated area, the groomsmen sharp and ready to take care of the horses even at the odd hour. Her captors guide her through a door to the right and then through a long hallway. They arrive shortly at a thick wooden door with a window cut out in a semicircle at the height of her head. Three metal bars run vertically across it. 

The guard who had ridden on the horse with her raps a complicated knock on the door and after a moment the door is wrenched open. It moves slowly and Karen doubts she would be able to open it on her own. 

The eldest guard dismisses the other two when the door is open wide enough for her to enter. The room obviously functions as a sort of dungeon, although it's not sunken into the ground. There are three cells across the far wall, and no windows. A pile of straw sits in each cell, as well as a chamber pot. She wrinkles her nose. The room doesn’t smell, except perhaps for the musty air that comes from the dirt floor, but she feels a swelling of disgust all the same. 

“Gag was hardly necessary.” 

Karen’s head snaps around, feeling her heartbeat thumping against her ribs. It was the jailor who had spoken, to the guard still out in the hallway as he pushed the door closed behind her. 

“She’s a witch, we needed to be careful of her silver tongue,” answers the guard, speaking through the barred window. 

“Load of crock,” the jailor mumbles as he turns away from the door, now shut and locked. He moves past her, unlocking one of the cell doors. Then he pulls a short knife out of his boot and cuts through the restraints on her hands, but unknots her gag with practiced fingers. He untwists the old rag and hands it back to her, although she has no idea what its for. 

“You have any water?” she asks because the gag had rubbed the corners of her mouth raw and the sharp wind from the horse ride had left her lips chapped. 

“Only wine,” he answers, but she nods her head in grateful acceptance. He moves over to the chair that's stationed next to the door, turning his back on her in a move that seems all too trusting. Next to the chair is a lantern—the only thing illuminating the room besides the trickle of light coming from the hall—the bottle of wine, and two books, the titles of which she can’t make out. 

The bottle is already uncorked, but still mostly full. She drinks as if it were water, sating her thirst in deep gulps. It’s only once she hands the bottle back that she thinks she could have bashed him over the head with it, although she doesn’t know what she would do if she were able to make it out of the room. Even if she managed to open the door and flee, the likelihood that she would have evaded being recaptured in a fort swarming with military personnel is little to none. And she was so tired, the simple prospect of running makes her legs feel weak. 

It seems stupid to willingly walk into the cell, but the hay seems more inviting than the cold dirt floor. She lays the rag down so that the pieces of straw don’t scratch her cheek, and falls asleep almost immediately. The last thing she hears is the gentle clang of the cell door closing behind her. 

She dreams that she’s in Ben’s sitting room, sometime in the early morning. It’s one of Doris’ good days and she sits in the rocking chair next to the fire, knitting, and humming a drinking song that would make Ben’s cheeks flush if he knew the words. Although chances are Ben wouldn’t have noticed the dirty lyrics, even if his wife had decided to sing it at a full bellow, as he and Karen sit at his kitchen table, engrossed with the documents Ben smuggled back from the Ellison estate. 

“We’re missing something,” Dream-Karen says. She had transcribed most of the documents herself, but the words swim before her, leaving them illegible. 

“No,” Ben says, “It’s all there, we just aren’t connecting the right dots.” 

The imagery of the dream changes, in that foggy seamless way that dreams work. Now she’s riding through the forest again, except this time the noon light falls down on the foliage and the aches from last night are absent, there’s only the race, the wild serenity. 

She awakes without having reached a destination. 

She doesn’t know how long she was asleep, but she feels oddly well rested, like she does on the Sundays when she lets herself stay in bed. Her stomach and full bladder tell her that it had to be several hours and when she looks through the cell’s bars she notices that there must have been a guard change, because a different man is sitting in the chair by the door. 

She awkwardly goes about relieving herself and after she musters some courage, asks if she’ll be fed. 

“Not now,” he says, not even bothering to look up from the figure he was whitling. 

“Can you tell me anything?” She tries again, “When’s my trial?” 

Finally the guard looks up from his work. He’s older than she first assumed, he had at least a decade and a half against the night guard, and his grey eyes have a milky quality to them even though his sharp eye contact makes it very clear he is far from blind. 

“You ain’t gettin’ one, sweetheart. Witches lose their heads, King’s orders.” 

She inhales and for a sudden moment is hyper-aware. She feels the soft hem of her nightgown (and isn’t that odd, she’s still wearing her nightgown) shifting against her shins, the thud of boots in the hall, all walking at different gaits, and for the first time she takes notice of the air’s rusty quality, how it almost tastes like salt. 

She exhales and feels her heartbeat in her fingertips, reminding her she’s still alive. 

She looks at the guard again, but he isn’t looking at her. For a moment she considers throwing a fit, screaming and kicking and crying with those gross, snotty snobs, of pleading and insisting and yelling _I’m not a witch!_ until her voice goes hoarse. But just for a moment. Instead, she sits down, leans against the cold stone wall, but it’s the pleasant kind of cold, like catching a snowflake on your tongue, and she does what she’s been doing best for the past eleven years: she starts to think. 

_What makes a witch?—An independent woman. Lives alone. Owns land. No husband and no children, or a dead husband. Is medically trained or medicinally knowledgeable. Can read. Is surrounded by events or acts of a supernatural nature. Spites men. Knows something she shouldn’t._

Karen, admittedly, ticked off many of those boxes, but she had generally been regarded as pleasant and sociable by those in town, had even been respected as Ben’s apprentice. She can’t think of anyone who would have reported her.

_Why would someone accuse her?—They were vindictive. They needed a scapegoat. She was a threat to something. Her work was a threat to something. She and Ben had gotten too close._

But they hadn’t figured it out, the cards never quite lined up, but if she wants to understand this, wants to get out of it, she’ll need to figure out what they were missing. But all she has is her memories, all the incriminating evidence is miles away, hidden in Ben’s breadbox. 

The previous night she vaguely remembers waking due to a stick in the hay scratching against her calf. She shifts through the hay until she finds it. It’s as thick as her finger and about the length of her hand, perfect for using as a pencil. She begins to etch into the dirt everything she can remember. 

She starts from the bottom, the place where she and Ben had been notified of the story. They had been transcribing Lord Ellison’s financial records, of the transactions to the crown his people had paid in their taxes when they had noticed a discrepancy. Money that should have been transferred to the area’s doctor had never been received, in fact the man had been living in near destitute from a lack of funds. The money had been swallowed by the crown’s treasury for reasons unknown. 

She and Ben had thrown themselves into the mystery, sneakily retrieving older records from Ellison’s study, and finding similar discrepancies that they both had previously brushed away as problems in the arithmetic. 

Karen writes down as much as she can remember in the dirt, branching off when she begins to inscribe the revelation she and Ben had stumbled upon nearly a month ago. While funding for many of the kingdom’s social programs had declined over the past twenty years, military spending had only increased. 

Some of that may have been justified, after all, tensions around the border had sparked again, and a cult uprising from four years ago in the capital had shocked and scared the nation. But those events were not enough to justify a four-fold increase in military spending. 

“So what’s it for?” Karen had asked Ben not two weeks ago. 

She’s backed herself into a corner. Her scribblings in the dirt cover all the available space, and she’ll need to be very careful of where she steps if she wants to make it back to her straw bed without smudging her work. 

“What are you doing?” 

She looks up at the guard who had remained silent while she worked, his raspy voice indicates that it is likely due to him having been asleep. 

“I was...writing,” she answers truthfully, but from the look that the guard squares back at her she gathers that it is not a viable answer. 

“What? Some devil summoning incantation?” He marches over to the cell. When he had first arrived the wrinkles across his brow and his grey, if well kept, beard had aged him. Now they act to emphasize his power; he looks like the side of a cliff, weathered, yet strong. She shrinks back against the side of the wall. 

“No,” she says softly, placatingly. She even raises her hand in front of her, to calm him or protect herself she does not know. 

He kicks dirt into the cell, covering some of her work. She swallows thickly and it feels like she is a child again, her fingers wet with ink and her cheeks wet with tears as her father throws her parchment into the fire, yelling that she’s wasting money by trying to learn to write. That no Page before her has ever been so useless, such a waste of space. 

Chastised, she refocuses her efforts, relying on memory alone to recall the information. It's hard, like trying to solve a puzzle when you only have a vague idea of what the picture is. But she perseveres, the hours moving swiftly when her mind is so occupied. It feels a little ironic that it took her being arrested to be able to focus for so long. 

It’s a sudden feeling of falling that rips her from sleep and the rapid drumbeat of her heart continues when she realizes she fell asleep. 

The first thing she notices is that it’s too dark. The lantern that had always been lit is now extinguished, leaving the jail in near black.

The second is the marching. Heavy bootsteps pound against the ground outside, from what sounds like all directions. 

She takes deep, gasping breaths, trying to convince herself she isn’t terrified. 

“Shh, shh, shh. You need to be quiet.”

Her hand flies to her mouth and she nearly jumps out of her skin. 

It’s the original jailor, the one who had been present when she arrived. Her eyes are still adjusting but she can just make him out, a dark silhouette in the inky room. He’s standing right outside the cell, looming, and it would have been far more intimidating than it already was if it were not for how softly he spoke. 

“The King’s dead,” he tells her, “Somebody killed him tonight, and every soldier in this goddamn country is swarming the Capital.” 

She would’ve been less surprised if he’d tried to suffocate her. It feels like a wave crashing into her, knocking her to her feet and dragging her into the sea, dazed and confused and disoriented, trying to figure out which way is up. 

“They don’t give a shit about you right now, which is good, but we have to wait for this place to clear out before we leave.”

She blinks in confusion, struggling to tread water. 

“Why?” she asks, and releases a powerful exhale through her nose. It almost whistles in the dry air of the dungeon. “What are you talking about? Why are you doing this?” 

“You’re not a witch, but you do know things you shouldn’t, things I need to know too. That stuff in the dirt-” he inclines his head, and Karen wonders how much he was even able to make out after the other jailor had ruined her work. Enough, it seems, for him to justify breaking her out. “-that’s more important than you think it is.” She nods, suspects her pale face is easier to make out in the minimal light than his, suspects that he can see the hesitation, but also the resolution on her face. He smiles back at her, and she knows because she can see the white of his teeth, It’s not predatory, in fact, it’s surprisingly kind. “Besides this whole place is dripping with blood and confusion,” he continues, “it’s all gonna boil over soon and I wanna be far away when it does. Unless you got someplace better to be, your best bet is coming with me.” 

She swallows. Considers her options.

“Okay,” she agrees, she wants to say it’s because this is her only option, but that’s not the sole reason. There’s that itch at the base of her skull, the one that demands action and truth and justice. It sends a zap of tension down her spine in anticipation of being satisfied. 

“Good,” he says, sounding genuinely relieved that she’s agreed. “You’ll need to change into this, you’ll freeze otherwise.” He hands her a small pile of clothing through the gaps between the cell’s bars, then turns his back to her. 

She’s glad to be out of her nightgown, and puts on the dress he gave her as quickly as she can. It’s a bit too short—as all dresses she doesn’t hem herself tend to be—but otherwise it fits very well. She wonders where he got it. 

He’s also given her a man’s thick cloak, and it’s only when she slips it over her shoulders that she realizes how cold she had been. 

The boots are still thumping against the ground outside for the next ten odd minutes. It’s probably the most ominous sound she’s ever heard. 

Or maybe it’s the silence that follows when they’re gone. 

The jailor strikes a match, the sulfur snapping in the quiet room. He lights the lantern, and like the birth of a star, the room becomes enlightened. 

That’s when she sees the body on the ground outside the cell. 

It’s the daytime jailor, a scratch maring his stony face, and his neck twisted, broken. His body lays limp on the ground, pushed away into the corner. He must’ve died recently for there’s no smell at all, and if it weren’t for the odd angles of his limbs she might have thought he was sleeping. 

She trembles as she backs away from the cell door which she had approached when he had struck the match, now her back goes slamming to the brick wall behind her, trying to create distance. 

“You did that,” she accuses. But it isn’t just a suspicion, she knows. She knows. 

His eyes scour her face. At first she thinks it’s malicious, but it’s far too calculating, like he’s a judge trying to determine a man’s innocence. “Yes,” he finally admits. “But he deserved it. I won’t hurt you,” he emphasizes, his voice hardly a whisper. “I’m gonna unlock that door for you now, and you can come out. You aren’t in any danger.” 

He moves slowly to the door, making sure his keys are in plain sight. Once it’s unlocked he swings the door open and takes a step back. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks. She thinks of the previous night, the way he had untied her gag, giving her something so she might sleep easier, letting her drink his wine, telling her the truth. He was, at the very least, a decent man, and she’d take him over someone cruel anyday. 

“Yes,” she answers, against her better judgement, but Karen’s taken leaps of faith before and they all panned out. He twerks his lips into an almost smile as she steps out from the cell, then lifts the lantern and pulls open the heavy prison door, leading her into the hall. 

“We need to stop in the armory, and then the mess for provisions,” he tells her, and she nods in agreement even though he’s looking ahead and can’t see her. It’s not until he mentions the mess that she remembers she hasn’t eaten for more than a full day, and—as if realizing it had been neglected—her stomach calls out in protest. 

The armory isn’t far down the hall, but from what she can tell it has been mostly cleaned out by the knights and guards who have already left. The jailor moves quickly, strapping on a pair of leather gauntlets, and after picking through the limited selection, finds a __ sword that he seems to approve of. 

Karen looks at the wall where the weapons were hung for storage and hesitates for only a moment before picking up a neglected utilitarian dagger with a smaller grip that fits comfortably in her hand. 

“That’s a good choice,” the jailor says, he hands her a belt with an attached sheath that’s approximately the right size and has several other pockets attached. 

She fastens the belt to her waist and watches as her companion works with the weapons and supplies around him, comfortable and relaxed, obviously in a place very familiar to him. 

“Who are you?” she asks suddenly as he packs away a wet stone. She realizes that she has no understanding of his motivations; why did he stay behind and not leave with everyone else? He seems well trained, so why was he working as a jailor?

“My name’s Frank,” he offers, looking up at her with facetiously naive eyes, “you have one, ma’am?”

“It’s Karen, and that’s not what I meant.” 

He looks at her for a moment longer, his eyes turning bottomless and dark. “I’m the executioner.” 

She exhales deeply, “So you were left behind so you could kill me?” 

“More or less, plus everyone here thinks I’m out of my skull, I wouldn’t be going anywhere with them.” 

“But you aren’t killing me. Are you a traitor?” 

He shrugs and doesn’t seem to really care. He goes back to packing, double and triple checking the ties on his leather chest plate. 

“If not trusting this country makes me a traitor than sure, but then I think you’d be one too.” He shoulders the bag and looks up at her. “Come on, let’s go.”

They head to the mess and the attached kitchen. Karen eats what she can and then packs the remainder away, saving enough to last several days on if they ration it well. From there they move to the near empty stable. It’s there that they first encounter another person. 

“Who’s that now?” an older man, sitting on the other sides of the stalls asks, and Karen nearly leaps out of her bones with the terror of being caught. “I thought all you boys had left!” 

“It’s Frank, Harold!” Frank calls back with an ease Karen finds remarkable yet difficult to imitate. 

“Oh, Frank!” Harold answers. “I haven’t seen you with all your gear on in awhile, I didn’t recognize ya! You don’t need me to help you with Maxine, do ya?” 

“Nah, old man, I got it,” he says as he moves towards one of the few remaining horses, who seems to perk up as he approaches. 

“But who’s that pretty lady?” The old groomsman asks, leaning forward out of his chair, his eyes squinted together. Frank stiffens almost immeasurably in front of the stall, but responds with teasing camaraderie.

“Don’t tell me you forgot my wife so easily?”

“Oh, Maria!” Harold calls back, obviously mistaking Karen for someone else, “Just as beautiful as I remembered!” 

Karen raises her hand in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything, afraid her voice will betray her true identity. 

Harold continues to blabber as Frank readies his horse, but Karen keeps her back firmly turned, instead focusing on the sure movements of Frank’s hands. She wonders how he is able to keep his composure when they stand on the verge of being caught at any moment. 

Finally he seems ready, and draws his horse, Maxine, out of the stable. He calls out a hasty goodbye to Harold and then directs Karen to take the lead out into the courtyard, returning from the way they came so they wouldn’t have to pass by Harold. 

Once the talkative groomsman is behind them Frank turns to Karen. 

“You know how to ride?” He asks and she shakes her head honestly. He nods in return, almost like he expected her inexperience, which is relieving when she anticipated him to be annoyed at her ignorance. He mounts the horse with practiced ease, than offers a hand to steady her as she gets on behind him. “Hold on tight, now,” he says, “use two hands.”


	2. Stories & Strategy

They ride hard for an hour, heading in what Karen thinks is an arbitrary direction, so long as it’s far away from the kingdom’s armies. Her exposed fingers are numb from where they are gripping his tunic, nothing to protect them from the thrashing wind. But she doesn’t dare let go, not even when they slow considerably and she’s too tired to sit straight. Her head slumps forward so it rests against Frank’s shoulder, which remains stable despite the horse’s gait. 

* * *

 

She lifts her head as Maxine’s pace slows to a walk. The darkness of the night is beginning to abate, softening into a predawn grey. They’re off the main road, in an unplowed field that’s been abandoned so long it’s been reclaimed by grass and weeds. It’s the equally abandoned barn sitting on the edge of the property that they are approaching. 

“We’ll rest here,” Frank says. He slides from the saddle, helps her down, and then unbridles the horse, letting her roam and eat grass as she pleases. 

The pair of them enter the barn. It’s in disrepair, but isn’t at risk of falling down on their heads, so Frank goes about making camp, spreading out two blankets on the ground. 

They sit, and the unnatural quiet of the early morning makes Karen shift with discomfort. She’d do anything just to hear a bird’s twitter. 

“So if the king’s dead, who’s the heir?” She asks to break the silence.

“His nephew, Matthew,” Frank answers, “probably be a better ruler than his uncle.”

“Do you think he orchestrated it then?” It would be the most obvious course of action, the kingdom has suffered from a string of assassinations, each in the name of ending tyranny. This wouldn’t be much different. 

“No,” Frank shakes his head, “I met the guy and he’s an honest-to-god pacifist. If he wasn’t a prince he’d probably be in the clergy.” 

Karen furrows her brow. 

“Why-” she cuts herself off, “-when did you meet the prince?”

Frank tenses his jaw, and it’s only after she’s asked that she realizes such a question may be a sensitive subject. 

“You ever hear of the Dragon’s Heart?” He eventually asks, licking his lips. 

“Sure,” she answers, “It’s a medal for knights. For valor.” 

“Yeah, well I won it.” 

It’s an answer that gives her pause. When they were leaving the fort she had assumed he wasn’t just a jailor, and it’s clear now that he wasn’t just the executioner either. Why he was demoted in such a way is still unclear to her, though. 

“You wanna know why I won it.” 

Karen wants to shake her head, deny her own curiosity, but she hasn’t stopped asking questions since she started, and the man before her is a treasure trove of mysteries, she’d feel a fool to stop asking now. Besides, it’s not a question anyway. She inclines her head as a sign to continue. 

“Alright Karen,” he says, “but you gotta listen to me. This is bigger than you think it is, it’s probably bigger than I think it is.” He leans towards her, looks straight into her. There’s something captivating about his eyes, like watching a fire burn, some sort of sparking passion hiding in their depths. “That means you gotta commit. If we’re gonna figure this out, there ain’t no backing down, we’re in this together. Till it’s over.” 

It’s half rally speech, half warning, and she can’t tell which half is making her heart hammer. She breathes deeply to steady herself, then thinks over her words carefully before speaking. 

“I don’t do things in half measures,” she tells him. “I’ll see this through.” 

“Good,” he says leaning away from her again. Rummaging through the pack he takes out two slices of bread, and offers one to her. She’s still full from what she ate in the mess, so she declines, but he rips into one of the pieces, demolishing it in seconds. She think he needs something to occupy his hands and mouth for a few moments before he can begin his tale, to relieve some of the tension that seems to hover over him. 

“Two years ago, I was away on a mission, escorting some fat Lord to his summer estate, if you can believe that. It was a waste of time, but orders were orders,” he says easily, before pausing, his jaw tensing again, his eyes downcast. “Then I was on leave, I got to go home.” He’s breathing so deep that she can see his chest expand and contract, like what he’s saying is physically exhausting. 

“I lived in the dinkiest little town, right on the border. It was a shepherd's village so there’s fields and hills in every direction. It was beautiful in the winter, covered in snow.

“But I got back in spring.” He swallows. “May first. And I crested the last hill and I could see it in the middle of the day, the smoke, the flames.”

Suddenly Karen wants to tell him to stop, that it’s enough. So she never hears the broken way his voice cracks ever again. She wants to pat his hair down, to lay her hands on his chest till his heartbeat stills. But she lets him continue. 

“And at first I thought it was a bonfire, for May Day,” he laughs with self-deprecation, and it might be the worst sound she’s ever heard. “But I knew it wasn’t, I knew.” 

Karen’s heard some of the stories about the raids taking place at the border, they were always brutal, but none of them were as real as this. 

“It was so hot I couldn’t even get close. I just sat on my ass in a field while the entire town burned.” He laughs that horrible laugh again and it forces Karen to close her eyes in sympathy. 

“You know, I’m convinced my wife was the best seamstress in this godforsaken country,” he continues, and it forces Karen to open her eyes and look at him again. “That’s why we lived there, so she’d have the best cotton, and the kids would have a safe place to run around.” 

_I’m so sorry_ sits on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it. 

“The fire lasted for the rest of the day but I couldn’t go home because everything was still smoldering.” He looks up at her for the first time since he began the horrible story and when he next speaks it’s with sharp teeth and a rapid fervor, “So instead I circled around, found the tracks that belonged to the raiding party and I followed ‘em back. They were sitting around a campfire, laughing and drinking and fucking celebrating. So I killed every single one of those sons of bitches. And they gave me a fuckin’ medal for it.” 

Frank stops abruptly and looks away from her again, it takes Karen a moment to remember where she is, to remember who she is. She brings a finger to her lips, feels a forcibly controlled exhale leave her mouth. Something in her chest feels cold, and pulling the cloak closer doesn’t help.

“Do you get it now, Karen?” He asks, his voice gentle and soft again, but with a certain quality that speaks of already accepted rejection. She doesn’t even really know what he’s asking. 

“Frank,” she responds, breathless, “I can’t even imagine…” she begins, but can’t finish. 

“These raids,” he says, with control, when it’s clear she’s unable to say anything else, “they aren’t random. They’re planned by people in our military, sanctioned by the King.”

She doesn’t ask how he knows this, people don’t talk the way he talks unless they know the truth so well it’s carved into their bones. She thinks about what he said before they left, about how everyone at the fort thought he was crazy when it’s clear to her he might be the smartest man she’s ever met. Frank wasn’t a medal winning soldier who got demoted after losing his mind to grief, he was a fighter, a survivor, who pretended to be docile so that he could spring at the right moment, once those who misconstrued him revealed too much. She wonders what secrets the day jailor had let slip. 

“So you want to find the people responsible,” she says, “you want to kill them.” 

He nods slowly, tentatively, and Karen doesn’t know how to feel about that. It should be terrifying, but Frank’s been nothing but kind to her. She still doesn’t quite know why he’s gone so far out of his way to help her when it’s unclear what she can possibly offer in return. Maybe he’s just a good person, she thinks. And even if he’s not, and he’s somehow using her to avenge the deaths of his family and neighbors, she knows that there is deep-seated corruption in their country, with blackness oozing out it’s pores, being used to eradicate that wouldn’t be the worst thing. She realizes she’s not afraid of Frank’s methods, not even afraid of his endgame. She nods at him in return, and his lips part in what she can only call minute surprise, like he was expecting her to run off even after she promised she’d stay. Like he was preparing himself to let her. 

“I grew up by the coast,” she finds herself telling him. Maybe because she feels she’s unlocked a deeper understanding of who he is and feels obligated to share her secrets, too. To show him she’s willing to be a part of this as much as he is. “My father was a fisherman, and so was his father, and my brother would’ve been one too.”

It’s clear from his face that Frank doesn’t yet understand the direction of the story, but it’s also clear that he’s willing to be patient. 

“And then one day, like any other, my father came back without my brother. He said that the tide was rough, that he fell overboard and drowned, we believed him.” Karen licks her lips, she can still feel the scratchy black wool of her mourning dress against her arms. “All my life I’ve wanted to be a scribe, but of course I could never get an apprenticeship, so I taught myself what I could, and kept the books for some of the places around town, the shipmakers, the general store, and the inn. We lived in a port town, so there were always some unsavory characters, and one day I was at the inn, maybe nine months after Kevin had died, when I saw some men threatening one of our neighbors. They were pirates, demanding money so that honest sailors could go about their work ‘undisturbed.’” As she continues with the story, her voice begins to water, and that reminds her more of what she used to call home more than the story she’s telling. “They said that if he didn’t pay the protection fee for the boat, they’d kill him. Didn’t even give any bullshit, just told him upfront that they’d stab him and feed him to the fishes. Then they used an example, said they’d already had to kill someone from this town this year.

“I don’t know how I knew, maybe I have an intuition about that kind of thing,” she says, thinking about the previous night, when she knew Frank had killed the other jailor, “but when Dad came home that night I confronted him about it, and he just broke. He didn’t have the protection money, and they were going to kill him, but instead my coward of a father said they should kill his son instead, that it would teach him his lesson better. So they did.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Frank manages to say, because he has more courage than her, or maybe because he knows she’ll actually appreciate his sympathy when he wouldn’t have. 

“I must have issued fifteen complaints, my writing got so much better for it,” she laughs dryly, blinking away the tears collecting in her eyes, “Sent them to the military, to the government, to anyone I thought might care, might make something change for the better. But in the twenty years I lived there I never saw a Navy ship in our harbor, and it wasn’t like they were gonna start sailing just because my brother was killed.” 

By the time she finishes the story, she can hear birds twittering, as if they finally feel it was safe enough for them to emerge. 

“Is that why you were digging?” Frank asks, probably not recognizing his own wordplay, but Karen appreciates it, so she smiles. 

“No, well not entirely. I ran away from home, after. Started fresh in Hell’s Kitchen because I was able to beg a retired scribe there to let me be his apprentice, we started finding discrepancies in the distribution of taxes. I think that someone found out what we were uncovering and had me accused.” 

“Hell’s Kitchen?” He asks incredulously, changing the tone of the conversation, “You live in that cesspool?”

“It has a certain charm!” She defends with a smile, and Frank has no other option but to smile at her in return. 

“Home usually does,” he responds, his smile falling from his lips, but leaving a sort of brightness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “We should get some sleep now, we’ll talk more in a few hours.” 

Karen agrees and they lay down on the blankets he put out, heads a few feet apart. 

“Sleep well,” he says, before she falls asleep. 

* * *

 

It’s still light out when she awakes, probably mid afternoon, based on what she can see through the gaps in the barn’s roof. She rolls over to face Frank and sees he’s still asleep, although he doesn’t stay that way, blinking his eyes open almost immediately. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“I’m a light sleeper,” he answers, his volume normal, but tone soft. “‘S not your fault.” 

She nods and sits up, cracking her back as she goes. Watching the way Frank flinches at the popping noise forces her to purse her lips to keep from laughing. He notices anyway. 

“Now, that right there is real witchy behavior,” he says, stretching without any of his joints protesting. Karen cracks her knuckles just to tease him.

“If you’re done,” he says, trying and failing to look truly unamused. “I want to talk about the assassination,” he says, serious again, “because I’d cut off my arm before thinking that it had nothing to do with all the military buildup, we can’t be the only ones who noticed.” 

Karen considers for a moment. He’s right of course, but she can’t see if the King’s death was a cause or effect of his expanding military. She says as much to Frank. 

“Easiest way to find out is to ask who killed him,” Frank says, like it’s as easy as talking with the neighbors about the weather over tea. 

“Yeah, that would be the easiest way to find out,” Karen says with disbelief, “If we had a clue as to who killed him, knew where to find him, and weren’t competing with the entire army to find him first.” 

“It’s not impossible,” Frank argues, “because whoever killed him, they’re on the same side as this as us.” 

“Yes,” Karen agrees, “But I don’t think we have the resources to lead a manhunt for a person we know nothing about.” 

“Don’t need a manhunt,” he says with such single-minded determination that Karen almost finds inspiring. She shivers a bit, pulls the cloak closer, but she isn’t really cold. Frank seems just about ready to go out riding, asking everyone he sees if they know who killed the King, but Karen needs more answers first, or at least the semblance of a plan. 

“But why know?” She asks rhetorically. 

Frank shrugs, “There was an opportunity and someone took it, timing doesn’t matter. We just need to take advantage of it now.”

“No, it does matter,” Karen presses on. “I was the ninth women in my town accused of witchcraft this month, but I was the only one taken to Fort Shillelagh.” She’s just thinking out loud now, doing her best to string together events that haven’t been making sense. “They should’ve taken me to the stocks, and I would’ve had my trial in town and I probably would’ve burned.” She starts pacing, avoids looking at Frank so he can’t distract her. “But the other-” she swallows, “-the other guard said I wouldn’t even get a trial, that it was the order of the King.” 

“Yeah,” Frank acknowledges, “It was a proclamation. We were supposed to clear out any witches we were holding, as quick as possible.”

“But that’s not normal,” Karen insists, terrified at the notion that it might be. 

“No,” Frank agrees, easing her mind somewhat, “and it was suspicious as fuck.” 

“And then he’s killed,” Karen continues. 

“It’s almost like he was clearing house.” 

Karen pauses in her paces, presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubs furiously. Ignores her grandmother’s voice in her head telling her that rubbing her eyes will just make it worse. There’s so many questions that Frank’s assumption bring to the table that parsing them apart feels impossible. 

She asks the first one she thinks of.

“Why does he hate witches so much?” she asks, then amends, “Why does he hate women who have even the smallest mite of power?” 

Frank doesn’t have any answers, not so much as a suggestion, and she’s coming up blank too, so she asks her next question. 

“If he was clearing house,” Karen postulates, “Does that mean he knew someone was after him? That he was going to die?”

“Maybe he knew he couldn’t stop it.” 

The implication of that makes Karen shiver, that there might exist a power within the country powerful enough to push away protection worthy of the King, to go toe-to-toe with an army. 

Frank seems equally spooked by the possibility, the shadows caused by the angles of his face actually grow darker, and it takes Karen a moment to realize that’s because the sun’s set. 

“I still say we need to find this assassin,” Frank says, as if their entire conversation has only reiterated his own point of view. “And I say the sooner we start the better.”

Despite her desire for a more well formed course of action, part of her is inclined to agree with him. She nods in acquittance and Frank goes to the open barn door and whistles for Maxine. The horse comes trotting over, but Frank remains stuck in the doorway, looking up at the sky, even as the horse breathes against his shoulder. His inaction makes Karen look up from folding the blankets and watch his careful movements as he turns back to her. 

“It’s a black sky tonight,” he says, “and the clouds are heavy too…” 

He keeps talking, but Karen isn’t paying attention. His words about leaving early the next morning float unregistered past her ears. 

“What did you say?” She asks, but interrupts him before he can repeat himself. “Black Sky…” 

She springs to her knees, grabs Frank’s forearm in excitement. 

“We need to go to Hell’s Kitchen,” she tells him with breathless certainty, suddenly filled with vigor. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt this way, like she’s breathing fresh air and smelling the ocean and biting into a strawberry for the first time all at once. If it always feels like this, all she’ll ever want to do is solve mysteries. “There’s someone there with answers,” she explains, “I know it.” 

She thinks he’ll want more of an explanation, at least names and locations, instead he looks at her intently for a moment and says, “I believe you.” He squeezes her hand where it’s gripping his arm for a moment before removing it gently. She’d forgotten she’d been holding on to him. 

“We’ll leave before daybreak tomorrow,” he assures her, and she realizes that he’s just as eager as her. She hopes that he isn’t misplacing his trust in her, she still doesn’t feel like she’s done anything to earn it. 

* * *

The problem with sleeping during the day is that then you can’t sleep at night. The both of them lay down and listen to Maxine’s sleepy breaths, but neither of them are able to sleep. The barn’s all black now, and Frank was right, she can hardly see her own hand in front of her. It makes no difference if her eyes are open or closed, but she keeps them closed in in the hope that it will lull her to sleep. She has no such luck. 

Eventually she sits up, cracks her back, stretches so she might find a more comfortable position to sleep in. 

“Why do you gotta make that noise?” Frank asks into the darkness, it’s tired but also conversational, so she responds. 

“What? Tell me you’ve at least cracked your knuckles?” 

“Sure,” he says, and he sits up too, not that she can see him, but she can tell by the shifting noises of his clothes. “But that’s normal. People shouldn’t be able to bend their backs enough to make a sound like that without breakin’ something.” 

Karen just shrugs, remembers he can’t see it. “It just happens,” she says, “I can do my hip, too,” she adds just to make him squirm. “Guess I’m talented.” 

“Karen, your talents have nothing to do with the noises your body makes.” 

It’s an unexpected compliment, made all the more precious because she knows it’s truly genuine. She can’t quite figure out why he’d say it. 

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” she asks, because she’s desperate to know—has been since he told her he was the executioner—and it’s easier to ask the darkness. For a minute she thinks Frank won’t respond—that he’s either ashamed of his answer or afraid of her response—but he does. 

“I was never gonna kill you Karen. You don’t have to believe that, I’ve got nothing but my word for proof, but I wasn’t gonna kill you.” He sighs, and it isn’t just because he’s tired. “At first I was just gonna tell you to get out of there, go home, or wherever you’d be safe. But that stuff you wrote in the dirt? I don’t know many men who can write that well on parchment. You’ve got a good head a your shoulders. You’ve already proved that, so if you’re thinking some shit about if you’re a burden or getting in the way you’re not, you got that?”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” she says, but maybe part of her was. After all, in the past people had always been yelling at her for being in the way. Ben’s the only she’s felt has ever been in her corner, is probably the only one back home worried about her, but it seems Frank believes in her too. “But thank you,” she says, before she has the opportunity to second guess herself. 

“I hardly did anything,” he answers as he lays back down, being overly modest. “I told you, Karen, we’re helping each other.” 

“Okay,” she says softly, and means it. When she finally falls asleep she feels filled with purpose and direction for the first time since she left home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is a bit longer and will probably take longer to get out, in the meantime I'd love to hear some feedback! Thanks for reading!


	3. Truths & Travels

Frank’s back is the first thing she sees when she wakes up. There’s a stain on his tunic—smudged dirt—that confuses her before she remembers where she is, and even when she does it’s a foreign concept. She’s never slept in the same room as a man she wasn’t related to, and it’s odd that the thought didn’t even occur to her the night before, but maybe that’s because it felt natural, safe. She smiles; the stain kind of looks like a lamb chop. 

That thought is enough to make her aware of her hunger, so she eats the crust of bread she declined last night as Frank wakes up. It’s not quite satisfying, but it’s enough for now, especially considering how eager Frank is to keep moving. 

“You sleep okay?” he asks as he munches on his own meager breakfast while she rolls up their blankets. 

“Fine, and you?”

His response is a noncommittal grunt, which she can’t really define as positive or negative. He’s probably not a morning person, considering he works nights, or maybe he was just being polite and doesn’t really like small talk. 

Maxine seems the most well rested among them, and Frank readies her quickly. It’s not long at all till they’re on the road. Their pace isn’t as demanding as it was the night they fled, so Karen is able to give Frank directions and outline her plan for him as they ride. 

They arrive on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen before noon. Frank wants to avoid Karen being recognized, considering by now the whole town knew she was a witch and wouldn’t be expecting to see her, so they avoid the center of town. Karen doesn’t have the courage to return to her house, not when it’s likely been looted and vandalized, so they go to Ben’s instead. 

It’s a pleasant day, considering how late it is in fall, so Ben had moved Doris and her chair outside so that she could get some fresh air and admire the foliage. She’s the one to spot them as they approach the Urich home. 

“Good morning, Doris!” Karen calls out, so the aging woman won’t be spooked by Frank’s admittedly imposing presence. 

“Karen, sweetie?” Doris yells back and Karen slips rather ungracefully from the horse so that Doris can see her from behind Frank. 

“Yeah it’s me,” Karen says, darting over to the front door. It had only been a handful of days since she’d last been here, but it feels like much longer. Doris’ smile brings with it a sense of normality Karen didn’t know she had been craving. 

Ben walks outside in the next moment, having heard them, and he hardly has the door open before he encircles her with his arms. 

“Thank god you’re okay,” he says into her ear before letting go. He examines her face with his shrewd eye, as if he might be able to read the events of the past three days by the lines on her face. He looks over her shoulder at Frank, who after tying Maxine to a nearby tree, had approached the house and the reunion. 

“I’m fine, really,” she insists, then launches into her explanation of the events of the past three days, barring nothing but the details Frank had shared about himself in confidence. Ben listens and analyzes the information she presents in his quiet way. Doris is looking at her too, her eyes sad. She reaches out her hand and Karen takes, surprised, as she always is, by her strong grip. 

“Why are we still out here?” Ben questions as she finishes the story, indicating to enter the house with his hand. Karen helps Doris inside, leaving the chair for Ben to handle, but even after she settles Doris into a chair by the kitchen table, Ben and Frank have yet to come in. Ben’s probably grilling him, and while Karen knows that it’s a waste of time and not appropriate, she still feels comforted by Ben’s familial instinct. 

“Why are you still out there?” she calls after a brief period of self-centered enjoyment, a small flattered smile slipping onto her face. 

They finish their conversation before coming in, wearing matching closed off faces of innocence. The three of them sit at the table with Doris and Karen is a little shocked by the jolt of excitement that it incites. It feels monumental, like they’re partaking in a war meeting or a scientific breakthrough. It scares her a little, how much she wants to pursue that feeling. 

Karen looks between Ben, Frank, and Doris before she realizes they’re all waiting for her to speak, it’s three people and she feels she hasn’t had this much attention directed at her in her life. She breathes. 

“We know,” she begins, “that the government and military have been abusing their power, have been hurting people. What we don’t know is why. But I think I know who does.” 

 

* * *

Madame Gao’s is, by all appearances, a brothel. It’s main entrance is a hole in the wall, off the beaten track, and in a skinny alley. An old establishment, it is well believed to be one of the building blocks of Hell’s Kitchen, and has the reputation that comes with an old name. 

What the johns who frequent it don’t know is that it serves a double purpose. Gao’s also functions as a sort of underground information collecting network that has similar bases across the nation. 

“So what? We buy the information off them?” Frank asks after she finishes explaining the place to him. 

“It wouldn’t be that easy,” Karen admits, “But I have a contact there, and I’m confident she’ll know what we need. If there’s anyone in this country to ask about assassinations, it’s her. We just need to wait for nighttime before we go.” 

Frank considers this briefly, then nods. She likes that he’s so quick to trust her, it seems to validate what they talked about the previous evening. 

“Well, I’ll start on super,” Ben says, looking between Frank and Karen before giving her a significant look, the meaning of which she can’t even begin to understand. “Why don’t you give me a hand, Frank?” 

Frank, of course, can’t refuse his host, but he doesn’t look too pleased at being singled out to help. 

“Karen,” Doris says softly, once the men have left the table, so they can’t overhear. “Are you safe?” 

“Yes,” Karen insists, taking the older woman’s hand again, knowing that it comforts her. 

“Gao’s isn’t a safe place,” Doris whispers, and Karen hates how worried she looks, that she’s making her worried. “They’ll try to trick you, the women there have such claws.”

“I’ll be careful,” Karen promises. She shifts the belt around her waist, feels the sheath of the knife run across her upper thigh. “And if it comes to it, I’ll use claws of my own.” 

Doris still looks worried, but she smiles a little too. 

“I wish you could stay longer,” she says, getting the tired, dreamy look in her eyes that comes when she loses some of her lucidity, “but I knew you wouldn’t stay forever, Ben disagreed with me, but I knew...You were always so hungry for more, more knowledge. I’m proud of you, but we’ll miss you too.” 

“No, Doris,” Karen says softly, a little overwhelmed by what the older woman was saying, “I’m not going to leave you and Ben, this...adventure...it won’t last forever.” 

Doris just keeps smiling at her and begins to hum one of her songs. It’s only when Karen repeats her own words in her head that she hears how resigned they sound, how forlorn. 

“Are we ready to eat?” Ben asks and Karen wonders about the mystic power of marriage, of knowing someone so well that needs and desires are anticipated without communication. Doris smiles with good humor at her husband. 

“Yes, I guess we are,” Karen answers. She feels stuck in an awkward limbo, wanting both the truth and excitement that will come when they go to Gao’s, and for the comfort that comes from the Urich home. But the sun sets while they eat and her choice is made. 

She and Frank set off for town. As much as she wants Ben to be there with him, so he too can gain answers to the questions they’ve been asking for months, he is known to be a happily married man and it would be highly suspicious for him to walk into Gao’s establishment. Not that Frank isn’t suspicious, but he at least has the benefit of anonymity. 

They slip inside as casually as can be managed. It’s still relatively early in the night, but that doesn’t mean the place isn’t busy—Karen purposefully ignores the sounds that drift down from upstairs. 

“I want to see Black Sky,” Frank says to the girl up front, the way they’d rehearsed. 

“She going with you?” The girl asks, with a pointed look at Karen, criticism in her tone. 

“Yeah,” Frank answers casually.

“Well, you’re paying for two then,” is the girl’s snappy reply, and Frank doles out the money without further comment. “She’s free right now, upstairs, third door on the right.” 

Under her feet the stairs are louder than even the knocking of headboards against walls that seem to drift from every other room. The stairwell is narrow and steep, and it takes longer than she thought it would to reach the third floor. 

But eventually they reach the right room. There is a black crescent moon painted on the door at eye level, about the length of her thumb. Frank raps his knuckles thrice against the wood, and the door is opened for them almost immediately. 

Black Sky isn’t her real name, of course, but it could be. The woman has hair the color of charcoal with a shine that makes it looked kissed by moonlight. Her eye makeup is the same deep black to match, and ebony beads decorate her throat and wrists. Her smile curves into the same shape as the crescent on her door. 

“Welcome,” she says, and Karen only knows her for more deadly work, but she has no doubt that she excels here too, if the heady notes in her voice are anything to go by. Her eyes drift from Frank to Karen, and she has to look up at the both of them, but there is so much coiled tension in her lithe body that Karen feels under her gaze rather than the other way around. 

“Karen Page,” she remarks, probably surprised but not showing it. “How unexpected. Why don’t you and your beau come inside, hm?”

She turns her back to them, letting her fingers linger on the doorknob in a way that manages to be suggestive despite the innate innocence of the action. Karen suddenly feels an itch creep up her arms, and fights the urge to scratch it. All the theatrics are clearly getting to her. 

She follows Black Sky inside. Frank shuts the door behind them. 

The bed takes up most of the room. It’s monstrous, with four posts and a canopy and enough blankets to smother someone in. Madame Gao’s wasn’t known for being cheap, after all. Black Sky sits atop the covers and crosses her legs, like a child next to a fire waiting for a story to be told. 

Neither Frank nor Karen sit, and that makes Black Sky laugh, like they’re a comedic duo, rather than a pair—that by all appearances—are propositioning her.

“So I take it you’re not here for the sex?” 

Frank scrunches his nose, and Karen would find it amusing that a soldier could be made uncomfortable by this woman’s vulgarity if Karen didn’t find the comment disagreeable too. 

“What do you know about the King’s assassination?” Karen asks, refusing to beat around the bush. Black Sky tilts her head to the side. 

“What makes you think I know anything at all?”

Karen almost rolls her eyes.

“When I was new in town you made it quite clear that you were the resident expert on killing. Have things changed that much since then?” 

“You have a sharp memory.” 

“You offered to kill any men that wronged me, that’s something that leaves an impression,” Karen scoffs. Black Sky concedes the point with a shrug. 

“You’re not here to collect on that favor?” She asks with an appraising glance at Frank, who widens his stance, but thankfully leaves his arms crossed against his chest and doesn’t reach for any weapons. Karen does roll her eyes then, annoyed at how the topic is being so skillfully avoided. 

“No,” she answers firmly. “We’re here to learn what you know about the King’s assassination.” 

Black Sky blinks several times as she meets Karen’s eyes. She’s making an alternative appraisal, and her conclusions seem more favorable than whatever she’d gained from her initial impression of Karen. 

“I really didn’t think anyone would find out it was me so quickly,” she says, nonplussed. And Karen has to do her hardest not to gape, to act as if this woman casually sitting before her hadn’t just pulled the rug out from under her. 

“That intuition of yours really is spot on, Karen,” Frank says beside her, shifting his weight again as he looks at Black Sky, clearly trying to construct a timeline for the event in his head. 

“You really did it?” Karen questions because she thought this woman might know something, not everything. 

“Stabbed him through the heart myself.” 

“Why?” Karen asks, her voice almost rising to a demanding tone, Frank’s hand on her upper arms stops her from yelling further. 

Black Sky’s face turns dark at the question. 

“He was a sick, delusioned man,” she says, “So paranoid by something he didn’t understand that he’d have hundreds of innocent women killed for it. You should be grateful, Karen,” she continues, elongating the first sharp syllable of her name, “you would’ve been one of them.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” Karen says softly, cognizant of the way Frank is rubbing circles on her bicep with his thumb. 

“That doesn’t explain it all,” Frank speaks up, “What was he planning?”

Black Sky sighs and stands up. 

“I suppose I better tell you about it, since you’re paying to be up here. Although I don’t expect you to understand.”

She moves past where they stand to a counter behind them, pouring herself a glass of water from a jug, and sips it with aristocratic delicacy. 

“There is a faction in this country,” she begins, “Known as the Hand.” 

Karen recognizes the name from several years ago. They were a sort of cult that had sprung up among a cluster of isolated towns in the midwest of the country. Known as violent and cruel they had shown no remorse for bloodshed as their twisted beliefs and ideology spread, sparking fear in the surrounding areas. Four years ago the Army had been forced to march in and put a swift end to the murdering radicals. The Crown had labeled it an insurrection. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Black Sky says, “and you’re wrong. The Hand is ancient, far older than this country and its people. And they’ll be back, but the King didn’t want to wait for their resurgence, he wanted to squash them, like a bug beneath his toe. Built up the Army so they’d be ready, sent out that executive order to kill all the witches just because the Hand dabbles in dark magic.” 

“And he didn’t realize everything he was doing was at the expense of his people,” Karen says, the tension and curiosity in her chest deflating. It seems a flat conclusion. The truth is nothing more than a overpowered man, stretched too far by paranoia. It seems like something so silly to have caused so much suffering. 

“Yes, he had to die.” 

Frank nods beside her in agreement.

“You did us all a service.”

Black Sky sets her glass down and runs her finger around its edge. It’s not crystal, no humming sound springs forth from the action, but she doesn’t look particularly put out by that. If anything, she’s contemplative. 

“So now that you know the truth,” she asks, “what are you going to do about it?” 

And that’s a problem Karen doesn’t want to address. Barely an hour ago Doris had wished her blessings on what Karen hadn’t wanted to admit was the beginnings of an adventure, and now that adventure is over, unappreciated till its conclusion. 

There has to be more. Returning to copying transcripts at Ben’s, no matter how familiar or comfortable, seems like a life sentence now. 

She’s saved from having to answer by Frank, who says with something black in his tone, “Don’t think we’re done here lady, what about the raids?” 

Black Sky is a master of taking charge and leading conversations, she clearly places importance in knowing more than others, but Frank sees to catch her off guard. 

“Hm?” she voices innocently, attempting to misdirect. 

“Don’t try that shit with me, lady, you really expect me to believe that you know all this stuff about the King and the government and that you don’t know that they’ve been coordinating all the raids that have been taking place at the borders? That they’ve been hiring mercenaries from other countries to carry it out? I’m not that thick.” 

“Well, that’s just not my prerogative,” she answers flippantly, and Karen feels anger rising in her throat and forces herself to swallow it down. This woman doesn’t know Frank and doesn’t know about the tragedy of his hometown. Still, her irreverence stings. 

But not to Frank, apparently. His hard eyes glare at Black Sky for a tense heartbeat before turning to face Karen as he exhales, the hot breath of a dragon slipping off his tongue and escaping. 

“Fine,” he says tersely. It’s directed at Black Sky, but he doesn’t do her the civil thing and look at her while he speaks, facing the door as he delivers his comment instead. Karen watches her though, and as Frank opens the door, her face falls into carefully balanced stillness. But despite her attempt at neutrality, something dark overtakes her expression. Her name, Karen muses, might not have been in reference to her coloring. 

Karen nods, unsure of what farewell to use, and follows Frank out the door. They’re quiet until they’re back on the street. 

“Are you okay?” she asks because he seems stiff, there’s a slight tremble in his right hand. He looks at her but doesn’t respond, and Karen realizes it’s because he doesn’t know himself. 

“What are we going to do?” she asks instead, and that question is manageable for him, and thinking about it seems to ease him somewhat. 

“We’ll go back to Ben’s, and I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow morning.” 

Karen stops and catches Frank’s sleeve before he can take another step forward. 

“Excuse me?” she asks, hurt and confusion worming their way into her voice. Frank turns his head in both directions before meeting her gaze. This isn’t a good place to linger, it’s unpopulated and dark and not in one of the safer districts of the Kitchen, but Karen isn’t prepared to let Frank move away until he explains himself. 

“We’ll ask Ben to stay the night, tell him what happened, and I’ll set out for the Capital at daybreak tomorrow.” 

Karen can only look at him in shock. He suddenly becomes defensive, stepping back from her and tearing his arm from her grip. He shakes his head like an uncomfortable thought has sank into his skull and he needs to jostle it loose. 

“Goddamit, Karen, I need to go there. It’s the only place I’ll get any answers!” He doesn’t yell, but there’s venom in his voice. Disbelief, and maybe sprinklings of sadness too. 

“I know that!” she says, half frantic. The words push themselves off the roof of her mouth and it makes her jaw feel like it’s being tightened in a vice. She realizes with some horror that it’s from the effort it takes to restrain herself from doing or saying anything rash. 

“I know that,” she says, softer, in an attempt to calm herself. “What I don’t understand,” she pauses to take a deep breath, because it seems every word she says sucks the air from her lungs. “Is why you’re planning on doing it alone.” 

“It’s not going to be a pretty picture Karen,” he answers, and he’s leaning away from her but for some reason it just seems like he’s pushing her. Karen hasn’t always been one to stand her ground, but she is now. 

“So waking up with a dead man in my prison cell was?” She spits back. 

“Yeah,” he growls, and she’s forced to grit her teeth, “I don’t want you anywhere near this.” 

“What happened to seeing this through till the end together?” Karen demands. 

“We found out what we wanted to know,” he says gruffly, dismissively, “Now I have things to do Karen. You don’t need to be there.”

“Bullshit!” She yells, and Frank’s jaw tenses visibly, “This isn’t over, and we still need to help each other!” It’s only as she says it aloud that she truly believes it, because with the words lingering in the air she can’t think of anything more true. Frank deflates and it comforts her that he recognizes the truth of it too. When he speaks next it’s with shaky breath. 

“You won’t like who I am Karen,” he says, “I don’t want to destroy myself in front of you.”

“Than don’t,” she breathes. 

Frank opens his mouth, as if to protest, but the words seem to get stuck in his throat. 

“We’ll see,” he says instead. 

Karen doesn’t quite know what that means, but she knows that Frank doesn’t intend on leaving alone, and for now that’s all she needs. 

“Okay,” she murmurs. 

* * *

 

The rest of the walk back to Ben’s is quiet. It’s a soft silence, tender, like if you touched it with too much pressure it might hurt. 

Ben still has a candle burning in the window for them, and when they enter she’s a little surprised to find both him and Doris still awake. 

“You shouldn’t have stayed up,” she tells Ben as she steps out of her shoes. 

“Are you kidding? All that curiosity, I couldn’t sleep!” Ben’s tone is unbelievably light compared to the past couple of hours, but it’s not unwelcomed. “Come on,” he says with a waving motion, “tell me everything.” 

So Karen does, recounting everything Black Sky told them. Ben’s eyes widen at the appropriate times, but he doesn’t interrupt, saving all his questions for the end. Frank doesn’t add anything, and Doris is quiet too, but they both listen with sharp ears and study Karen carefully during the story. 

“Wow,” Ben says when she’s finished. “I couldn’t even have conceived of something like that.” He brings his hand to his mouth while he thinks, the same way Karen does, but it doesn’t seem like he’s totally able to intake everything that’s been revealed tonight. “Maybe we should all get a good night’s rest, hm,” he suggests, and Karen nods in agreement. 

They get up from the table, and Frank goes outside to fetch the blankets that are still in Maxine’s saddle bag. Doris catches Karen’s hand before she can leave the kitchen. 

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” she says. Karen remembers their conversation from earlier and her voice catches in her throat. “It’s okay, darling,” Doris continues, “parents always have to let their children go. I’m just glad you’ll be doing what’s right.”

“You’ll make quite the journeyman,” Ben adds, and Karen had forgotten he was still there listening. She rises to wrap him in a hug.

“Thank you,” she says into his shoulder. He pats her shoulder once, and she thinks it is such a shame that he and Doris never had children, but she’s happy to have lived for a time as their surrogate daughter. 

“It’s been a pleasure,” Ben says as she releases him. “Now, handsome,” he says, directed at Doris, “why don’t we get ready for bed?” 

Doris’ laughter chimes through their home. 

* * *

 

The sleeping arrangements aren’t ideal. The Urich’s only have one bedroom, and Karen is more than accustomed to spending the night wrapped up in blankets on the floor near the fire, but they have one more house guest than usual tonight and a lack of space. Doris eventually sorts it out so that both Karen and Frank have enough space to sleep in the sitting room after they move a few tables and chairs. 

Ben and Doris retire to their room, leaving Frank and Karen alone again. 

“You’ll still be here when I wake up?” she questions tentatively, curling her feet under her body. The fire has died down enough so that it’s just embers, there’s not enough light to see by, but the lingering warmth is still enough to heat her chill hands. 

“Said I wasn’t going to leave without you and I’m not,” he says. The darkness has a way of uncovering a gentleness in Frank’s voice and it soothes her enough to turn over and fall asleep. 

They leave early the next morning. Their goodbyes to Ben and Doris are brief, and Karen is glad to have taken care of them the night before. They send them off with well wishes and supplies. She can’t help but wonder if they’d be so willing to help if they knew what Frank was going to do, and that Karen was a supporting accomplice. But they won’t know, and she’s grateful for it. 

If they keep a steady pace they should be able to reach the capital in three days. Frank elongates this initial estimation to four days when he remembers that Maxine is being burdened with Karen’s weight in addition to Frank’s and will need additional time to rest. It’s with some discomfort that Karen realises Black Sky must have very nearly ridden her horse to death for her to have returned to Hell’s Kitchen from the capital in the time she did. 

They keep off the main roads for the most part, Frank is paranoid about the people they might encounter and claims he knows faster routes anyway. Karen is a little dubious about that assertion after they meander through a grassfield for hours on the first day, but she doesn’t have any grounds to challenge him on it, so they do it his way. 

Not that she minds, particularly, she’s in no rush. They take the time they spend pressed together on the horse to discuss their plans for when they get to the capital. For someone who was once a decorated soldier, Frank has surprisingly few high ranking contacts within the military. 

“I cut my ties and burned my bridges pretty dramatically,” he defends after Karen clucks her tongue at him. And from the position he was serving when she met him, that doesn’t surprise her. 

They spend most of that first afternoon finalizing their plans, and in they end Karen thinks they’re far from perfect and rely on people willingly surrendering sensitive military information, but they’re also probably the best chance they’ve got. 

“You’re sure you’re okay with doing all this?” Frank triple-checks as they’re setting up camp. 

“Yes,” she confirms with as much assurance as possible. There’s no way Frank is going to go through with the plan unless he thinks she’s perfectly onboard, and she can understand his hesitation—the plan does hinge on her ability to forge military documents and lie to people with the authority to arrest and imprison her. 

“I’m asking you to do a lot Karen,” Frank says empathetically as they sit and eat their meager dinner. “I’d understand if you’re not okay with it.”

“It’s nothing outside of my capabilities,” Karen insists, hoping that will be the end of it, but Frank, it seems, has a never ending list of concerns. 

“I just don’t want any of this to sit on your conscious,” he says, leaning his head to the side a bit, as if his own conscious is being weighed down at the prospect of damaging hers. Karen closes her eyes because she knows that brushing off Frank’s concerns will only increase them. 

“You’re worried that if I help you find these men, and then you kill them, with the information I helped you collect, I’ll feel guilty for their deaths.” He nods, and Karen can not deny that when (not if) this comes to pass she will be directly responsible. “But,” she continues, “if I help you, that means I know exactly what you’re going to do, and who you’re going to do it to, and why you’re going to do it to them.” It’s a little odd how deep his eyes get as she speaks, like he’s seeing her rather than listening to her. “Doing this means I’m getting my hands dirty, but at least I know for sure it’ll be with the right guy’s blood.” 

It’s still not quite an answer to what Frank’s been asking, and that’s simply because she doesn’t know if she’ll feel guilty or not until they’re dead. Maybe she should be afraid of the implication that she’ll feel no guilt, but instead she feels a mild sense of relief that she can finally recognize the part of herself that can accept a little bloodshed, that can be accused of witchcraft. She doesn’t say it, but she thinks it might be because she’s met Frank. 

After all, if he can murder an entire raiding party, bury every aspect of himself in order to learn more about the tragedy that befell his home, and still offer comfort to a woman he was supposed to execute, than no darkness in Karen will be thick enough to block out the light. 

The next two and a half days of travel are lighter. Not that the journey itself becomes easier, but the tone of the conversation between Karen and Frank is lighter. They avoid the discussion of moral quandaries or murder, or (arguably the worst of all) personal feelings. Instead they talk about fishing, which they both have a penchant for, and Frank tells some stories about Maxine which fall into categories of either hysterical or unbelievable. Sometimes his kids are involved in those stories too, and Karen learns their names were Lisa and Frank. Karen wants desperately to know more about them, but she knows better than to ask. 

To her delight Frank asks question about writing and manages to sound genuinely interested in her responses. It’s nice to have someone new to talk to. 

She’s almost disappointed when they crest a hill and the capital comes into view. The city is sprawling, but the buildings are generally clustered in the center. It’s probably five times the size of Hell’s Kitchen and is considerably more busy. At this point it’s impossible to avoid other people because of the huge amounts of trade the city sees, so they move to the main road. Luckily the high amounts of foot traffic means that they blend in. 

“It’s impressive,” Karen says as they cross a bridge and officially enter city limits. 

“It’s just a city,” he says, but his back tense under her hands. She squeezes his shoulder as a sign of reassurance, but she’s not sure what for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Matt and Elektra are definitely together in this AU and in my head she was partly motivated because she wanted to become queen, but I couldn’t fit it into the story and I figured the motivations I mentioned were clear enough. Also Stick is the King, which I tried to make pretty clear, but I couldn’t call him by name because honestly having a King Stick sounds so weird.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that most of this was written pre-Punisher so the characters are based off what we see in DD, although some edits have been made to include stuff learned in the Punisher. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear what you think!


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